


Highway Star

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hmm, let’s see,” Dean hummed, stepping into his personal space, “your name is Castiel, you drive a Continental and you say things like ‘howdy’ and ‘dandy’. It’s all pretty Matlock to me.”</p><p>“What about you, Great Gatsby? Nothing quite screams ‘Take me back Daisy Duke’ like burning rubber in a two-door flat top and using her/she pronouns for inert objects.”</p><p>“Guess that makes us two horny old guys, huh?” he acknowledged, licking his lips. God, why did he have to be such an attractive smartass? Why did he have to get directed to his shop? Why did his car have to take the plunge today, of all days? Why—“Yeah, that’s definitely a busted radiator,” he said, lean frame bent over the engine. “You have some tools?” Cas gaped at him. “I’m pulling your leg.”</p><p>“I knew that,” Cas scoffed, crossing his arms indignantly. There was no way he was going to feel inferior on account of a man he barely knew… even if he was now leaning so precariously into the backseat of his car that his perfectly ironed rump and meaty thighs were on display for he and all of the lucky I-90ers to see…</p><p>Dammit, why did he have to be such a bottom?</p><p>Why did Dean have to have such a nice bottom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway Star

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the Deep Purple song.
> 
> A/N: Huge thank you to Google Maps for making me look like I’m capable of traveling cross-country.

“Roadside Assistance. Can I have your name and location?”

“My name is Castiel Novak; I’m on the I-90 heading east toward Watertown. I’m—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.” Automated voice, _of course,_ because let’s evade human interaction at all costs—that’ll fix his car _and_ save on employment costs.

Sighing, Castiel pressed his cell closer to his ear to avoid feedback from the howling wind. Summers in South Dakota typically reigned long and hard, or so he’s heard. At least he and his essentials weren’t suffering in dry heat. “Cas-tee-elle, No as in ‘No, don’t put me on hold’, Vac, as in this service sucks major ass.”

“Please hold while I transfer you to a representative in your locality. Please note that this call may be monitored for quality assurance.”

Casting a glance back at the Continental’s steaming open hood, Castiel didn’t take long mulling over his next proclamation: “SUCK MY DICK.”

“Singer’s Auto Repair, this is Dean Winchester. State your name and nightmare.”

 _Hello,_ that definitely wasn’t the voice of a pre-recorded menopausal woman. This guy’s voice was low enough to place naughty house calls to desperate housewives—or house _men_ , whatever the dude was into. He didn’t sound like someone whose voice took years of mileage to get to that point, either, which may or may not have made the twenty-something flush like a schoolgirl.

“Uh, h-howdy, Dean,” he sputtered like the four-wheeled apparatus next to him ( _howdy, really?)_ “My name is Castiel; I’m heading northbound—or _was,_ heading northbound—on the I-90 heading east toward Watertown and my car broke down. Busted radiator, I think.”

A few scribbles later (that was a new sound, considering it had taken three dialogues with a robot to get to this point) had Dean sucking in his breath and saying, “Yikes, alright, I can send my boys on a search party for a new radiator. What’s the make and model?”

“Lincoln Continental, Ford 460 V8.”

He heard Dean’s low whistle on the other end of the line. “No wonder your Baby quit you, Cas, thing’s a dinosaur. Give me one second, yeah?” Castiel would have duly defended his means of transportation had he not been oddly endeared by the spur-of-the-moment pet name. “Benny! How long’s it gonna take to find a radiator for a Continental?—Jesus Christ, alright, how ‘bout a temp?—Okay, my buddy is gonna place a few calls, shouldn’t be more than a couple hours. In the meantime, I’ll be down in ten, fix ‘er up so she’s stabilized. How does that sound, Cas?”

Regardless of the fact that he places female pronouns on inanimate objects, “Sounds dandy, Dean.”

“What’s your mile marker?”

Cas squinted in the direction of a rundown sign a few feet away because glasses are for the weak (and ridiculously poor). “Forty… is that a football post or—wait, no, yeah, definitely a second four.”

“Okey dokie, handsome, see you in ten.” A _click_ left Castiel clutching his phone a little too hard, even though he knew it was probably something Dean called every customer for amicable service.

For those excruciating ten minutes, he was left with a propped-up hood and pregnant with thought. Like any person in their wrong mind would do, Castiel began to trace back every single mistake he made that led to this ill-fated day of epic proportions—starting with middle school.

Castiel was always a step ahead of his classmates. At eleven, he tested into Algebra electives that wouldn’t be remotely available to other students until junior high at least. High school was no different. He breezed through four years’ worth of core classes. Geometry, Trigonometry, College Algebra, Calculus—the equations were always a little too elementary.

It wasn’t until he was on the bend of senior year that his guidance counselor recommended he put his advantageous (read: completely unwanted) flairs to use. He graduated valedictorian of his class and went to DePaul’s on a full ride. Currently, he’s majoring in Taxation Science (read: mind-numbing forward-thinking for the elite and sacrificial future mathematicians of the world) and putting in his first couple hours with a two-year apprenticeship program in Watertown.

Or, _was_ , until his dad’s Lincoln decided to take the big dumb. The deadbeat chap couldn’t have left him twenty grand to buy a new car—one that actually gets around without whining the whole nine yards—but he could leave him and his mother high and dry in the middle of Pontiac with five other mouths to feed. The things Castiel would do in the afterlife to that son of a—

“Cas?”

Castiel turned and caught sight of one Dean Winchester, he whose voice melts thy loins into butter, standing before him. And _hot damn,_ call the fire department before he burns down the highway.

He had crew-cut caramel brown hair that met in a perfect dollop in the front. His eyes were greener than any mile marker he’d come to pass so far. His lips were two plump salmons bursting at the seams and his jaw looked like something out of a Hollywood dream. And that jumpsuit—good God, if that thing was any tighter the Grand Canyon would have no choice but to flood all over again.

Castiel realized he hadn’t confirmed his all too obvious presence. “Yes, hullo, that’s me.”

( _Mental note: Hullo = artsy fartsy version of howdy.)_

“I’ve got to say, you are definitely not what I expected.”

Well, this is an interesting turn of events. “What do you mean?”

“You’re cuter,” the mechanic said, tossing him a wink before upraising his Adonis from the hood of his own car—and wow, ‘was that a sixty-seven Impala? _’_ he deliberated as he tried to desperately wrap his mind around the fact that Mr. Wonderful just winked at him and called him cute.

Castiel spoke before his words turned into creamed corn, “What gave the impression that I wasn’t?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” Dean hummed, stepping into his personal space, “your name is Castiel, you drive a Continental and you say things like ‘howdy’ and ‘dandy’. It’s all pretty _Matlock_ to me.”

“What about you, Great Gatsby? Nothing quite screams ‘Take me back Daisy Duke’ like burning rubber in a two-door flat top and using her/she pronouns for inert objects.”

“Guess that makes us two horny old guys, huh?” he acknowledged, licking his lips. God, why did he have to be such an attractive smartass? Why did he have to get directed to his shop? Why did his car have to take the plunge today, of all days? Why—“Yeah, that’s definitely a busted radiator,” he said, lean frame bent over the engine. “You have some tools?” Cas gaped at him. “I’m pulling your leg.”

“I knew that,” Cas scoffed, crossing his arms indignantly. There was no way he was going to feel inferior on account of a man he barely knew… even if he was now leaning so precariously into the backseat of his car that his perfectly ironed rump and meaty thighs were on display for he and all of the lucky I-90ers to see…

Dammit, why did he have to be such a bottom?

Why did Dean have to _have_ such a nice bottom?

“My buddy’s about two shakes out,” he said, phone in one hand, scissors and a cloth in the other.

Cas, despite being both riled and incredibly turned on by the man, decided to humor them both. “You gonna knit me a nice beanie?”

Dean flashed him a winning smile. “Cute _and_ witty,” he said, sizing him up. “I like you, Cas.”

Luckily the smoke had cleared, so Cas could observe him work. Turns out that household scissors could cut the fiberglass border around the radiator. It was an interesting process, watching the mechanic’s calloused hands move from part to part, cutting and wiping and sanding off the broken mechanism. He wondered if this was more than a job to Dean, that working with mechanized parts acted in part as a therapy (with ample compensation, of course). Dean seemed to enjoy it.

“You know, you could’ve taken the 29.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“The 29 is a straight-shot to Watertown,” he explained, then proceeded to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ve lived here my entire life; it comes with the job description.”

Cas held back a snort as he reached for the lightly used handkerchief Dean kept inside his front pocket. Prudently, he lifted his arm and worked his thumb around the grime tucked inside the shallow of his pensive creases. It wasn’t until he caught Dean’s lingering emerald gaze that Cas realized just how close they were, how intimate the whole exchange was.

In a single move, Dean tossed the rag over his shoulder and pressed his lips to his. It was probably the roughest mouth-to-mouth contact he’s had next to actual CPR, gums and teeth and tongue clashing like tripartite ex-lovers, but it didn’t make it any less of a kiss. He licked into his mouth and Dean tasted like sweat and lubricant and aftershave: everything good in this world.

“So, does the offer still stand?” It took Cas a moment to comprehend the offbeat question until Dean’s eyes trailed in the general direction of his tent in Camp Homoerotic.

“Your boss is _so_ going to hear about this,” he replied, snaking his hand under his waistband. But Dean was already down on his knees, undoing his belt.

“ _Trouble is a two-way street,_ Cas _._ And the way I see it, I’m only doing my job _._ ”

**-FIN-**

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to those who get the Matlock/Gatsby reference.


End file.
